So, here I sit on the stoop of my little apartment in Aniak, sipping my coffee and looking cool. Check out the hair.

Before I left Craig for my two-month stint as a fifth-grade teacher, I forgot to get a haircut. For most of the past ten or so years, I kept my hair cut short, but recently, possibly in honor of Covid-19, I have been letting it grow out. I appreciate having a bit more hair, and with a good cut I am less likely to wake up each morning with crazy spiky bed hair. However, there is a sweet spot, a zone of comfort, beyond which my bangs start to drive me crazy. There is one woman here in Aniak who sometimes cuts hair, but she is working two jobs right now, so no dice.

Fast forward to the part where my long bangs are hanging in my eyes. I find a pair of scissors, wet down my bangs and start cutting away. Emergency surgery complete, I find that if I add a strategically placed hair ribbon, the mullet effect of my work becomes less obvious.

It seems that the length of my bangs is inextricably linked to my self-esteem. Is there just a trace of Billy Ray Cyrus in my new ‘do? Well, if there is, I don’t care. I feel better anyway.